


You Can Hear 'Em In The Distance

by Frau_Eva



Category: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena
Genre: Gen, Historically appropriate fucked up shit, New Orleans au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frau_Eva/pseuds/Frau_Eva
Summary: It might be superstitionBut when I hear 'em in the night I say a prayerYeah it might be superstitionBut when I hear 'em in the night I say a prayerBecause I respects traditionLike the kind they carry on in Congo Square- "Congo Square," Sonny Landreth
Kudos: 6





	You Can Hear 'Em In The Distance

In a lonely rural parish just outside of New Orleans, surrounded by live oaks and cypress trees covered in moss, there lies the Ohtori plantation. It hasn't truly been a plantation for over a hundred years, but the spirit of a place remains.

Today the building houses an exclusive private academy. Wealthy parents tour the manicured grounds in a horse-drawn carriage owned by the admissions office. They are met by one of two people, ostensibly according to their schedules, but actually determined by the black creole siblings' esoteric and inscrutable criteria.

The sister wears the sort of white lace dress that was everpresent a hundred years ago. Her hair is a dark swamp of thick finger waves, always pinned up. She is all gentle smiles and Well I Do Declares and Bless Your Hearts.

The academy's offices also function as an informal museum. She walks them through on a private tour, showing off reproductions of sugar sculptures, long military sabres, caged hoop skirts, and a rusted metal cotton gin. She hands over an antique dueling pistol for them to fondle. "The American South was one of the few places dueling still continued, up until the war. The southern gentleman settled any slights to his honor--whether by swords or by pistols--the challenged had the right of choice." 

The parents coo over the history and tradition. She smiles a warm but sly smile. "We seek to uphold the grandeur of the old south here at Ohtori." 

The wives, however, do not always like her. Sometimes her brother will have to make an impromptu visit, in these cases. They are jealous of her movements and soft voice, which show some long-learned finishing school training that is rare even among the modern elite. Her eyes are too warm. "White people and people of color couldn't legally marry, so a system of common law marriage came about called placage--unique to the city of New Orleans." Her hand flutters over a reproduction of an advertisement for a quadroon ball. Their paunchy husbands perk up. "When a wealthy white man wanted a pretty lady of color, they'd write a contract. He would set her up in a nice house, an income, and promise to support any children they had. They were free to return to their wives as they pleased." Later, women wonder where their husbands heard of such a school--when pressed, they only say it was an exclusive Garden District party. 

When students ask for the tour their parents received, it is far from the same. The sister points out objects that were always there, but never described for their awestruck parents. The punkah on the ceiling--an elaborate system of cords and wooden panels that slaves would arduously pull so their masters may be fanned and have flies flicked from their food--was a device that flaunted their wealth, but allowed its liveried operators to eavesdrop on the conversations of their owners. The sister's smile is unperturbed when she tells them slaves would be whipped if they faltered the fanning but a moment. She takes out a punishment collar, insists they hold it, and laughs a tinkling laugh when they draw back as if burned. The sugar sculptures--once simply quaint and pretty--are art for opulent dinner parties, made to flaunt wealth eked from human suffering.

People come from all over the South to visit Ohtori, but locals are more wary. Only Garden District socialites--sure in their protection from all consequence--are brave enough to dismiss the rumors as superstitious. The common people whisper that the sister once brought out a shackle from the Lalaurie mansion from her collection, and spoke of her far too intimately. They passed down their great-grandmother's rumors--that she once danced in Congo Square alone at night, black hair cascading down her shoulders, as youthful as she stands today. Many swear her name once was etched in the side of a crumbling mausoleum in St. Louis Cemetery #1, a mistress buried in the family tomb, but the name has long been worn away. Students swear they hear drums rattling them awake from the woods at night, pounding out a frantic heartbeat, but no brave delinquents can ever find the source of the sound. Horse hooves chase them away from a carriage that isn't there. 

They know no New Orleans native would ever say, "I do declare." No one knows what is an act and what is too real.


End file.
